hit him
always the hurt of his
poor dumb old leg
stopped me
but now I knew
somehow I knew
his leg was part
of why my mother left
and maybe why she died
it had to be
so
I was hitting that
stupid leg
too
he lay helpless on the floor
and right away
(my hands were still
bunched up and ready)
I felt a hollow
in the center of my chest
unfisted my hands
and reached for him
Dad, I didn’t mean to
I had a shitty day
let me
No, you—
he swore a string of words at me
unrepeatable
even in my head
held up his shaking hand
to warn me off and slid
his bad leg awkwardly
across the floor between us
Get away from me.
worked up to his good knee
seconds and seconds
to make it that far
and holding on the chair
by its seat
hoisted up to his feet
I’ll pick myself up, you—
those words again
the worst
Pick myself up.
Pick myself . . .
but I was already
out the back
pushing through
the weeds and dew